The facility stood on the edge of town behind a row of industrial buildings. There were no family photographs here, no polished furniture, and no expensive renovations to hide what had once belonged to Camden.
Finnley found the correct row and walked slowly until he saw the number.
108.
For several seconds, he simply stood there.
The metal door looked ordinary.
That almost made it worse.
His father’s final message had led him here, but Finnley still had no idea what he was about to uncover.
He inserted the key.
It turned.
The lock released with a small metallic click.
Finnley pulled up the door.
Inside were several cardboard boxes, an old filing cabinet, a wooden chair, and a small desk covered with dust.
Nothing looked valuable.
Then Finnley noticed the box nearest the entrance.
His name was written on it.
Not “Finnley Dennis” as it might appear on an official document.
Just the name his father had used when Finnley was a child.
Finnley knelt down.
His hands were steadier now.
He opened the box.
